Anna and the French Kiss by Stephanie Perkins

speak gangsta, though,” I add jokingly.
    “Fo’ shiz,” he replies in his polite English accent.
    I spurt orangey-red soup across the table. St. Clair gives a surprised ha-HA kind of laugh, and I’m laughing, too, the painful kind like abdominal crunches. He hands me a napkin to wipe my chin. “Fo’. Shiz.” He repeats it solemnly.
    Cough cough. “Please don’t ever stop saying that. It’s too—” I gasp. “Much.”
    “You oughtn’t to have said that. Now I shall have to save it for special occasions.”
    “My birthday is in February.” Cough choke wheeze. “Please don’t forget.”
    “And mine was yesterday,” he says.
    “No, it wasn’t.”
    “Yes. It was.” He mops the remainder of my spewed lunch from the tabletop. I try to take the napkins to clean it myself, but he waves my hand away.
    “It’s the truth,” Josh says. “I forgot, man. Happy belated birthday.”
    “It wasn’t really your birthday, was it? You would’ve said something.”
    “I’m serious. Yesterday was my eighteenth birthday.” He shrugs and tosses the napkins onto his empty tray. “My family isn’t one for cakes and party hats.”
    “But you have to have cake on your birthday,” I say. “It’s the rules. It’s the best part.” I remember the StarWars cake Mom and Bridge and I made for Seany last summer. It was lime green and shaped likeYoda’s head. Bridge even bought cotton candy for his ear hair.
    “This is exactly why I never bring it up, you know.”
    “But you did something special last night, right? I mean, Ellie took you out?”
    He picks up his coffee, and then sets it back down again without drinking. “My birthday is just another day. And I’m fine with that. I don’t need the cake, I promise.”
    “Okay, okay. Fine.” I raise my hands in surrender. “I won’t wish you happy birthday. Or even a belated happy Friday.”
    “Oh, you can wish me happy Friday.” He smiles again. “I have no objection to Fridays.”
    “Speaking of,” Rashmi says to me. “Why didn’t you go out with us last night?”
    “I had plans. With my friend. Bridgette.”
    All three of them stare, waiting for further explanation.
    “Phone plans.”
    “But you’ve been out this week?” St. Clair asks. “You’ve actually left campus?”
    “Sure.” Because I have. To get to other parts of campus.
    St. Clair raises his eyebrows. “You are such a liar.”
    “Let me get this straight.” Josh places his hands in prayer position. His fingers are slender, like the rest of his body, and he has a black ink splotch on one index finger. “You’ve been in Paris for an entire week and have yet to see the city? Any part of it?”
    “I went out with my parents last weekend. I saw the Eiffel Tower.” From a distance.
    “With your parents, brilliant. And your plans for tonight?” St. Clair asks. “Washing some laundry, perhaps? Scrubbing the shower?”
    “Hey. Scrubbing is underrated.”
    Rashmi furrows her brow. “What are you gonna eat? The cafeteria will be closed.” Her concern is touching, but I notice she’s not inviting me to join her and Josh. Not that I’d want to go out with them anyway. As for dinner, I’d planned on cruising the dorm’s vending machine. It’s not well stocked, but I can make it work.
    “That’s what I thought,” St. Clair says when I don’t respond. He shakes his head. His dark messy hair has a few curls in it today. It’s quite breathtaking, really. If there were an Olympics competition in hair, St. Clair would totally win, hands down. Ten-point-oh. Gold medal.
    I shrug. “It’s only been a week. It’s not a big deal.”
    “Let’s go over the facts one more time,” Josh says. “This is your first weekend away from home?”
    “Yes.”
    “Your first weekend without parental supervision?”
    “Yes.”
    “Your first weekend without parental supervision in Paris ? And you want to spend it in your bedroom? Alone?” He and Rashmi exchange pitying glances. I look at St.